


Carcosa

by octobertown



Series: Ashes [2]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men (Original Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, But I mean like a smidge, Dom/sub Play, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Light Dom/sub, Outdoor Sex, PWP, Psyche Smut, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, but with a little plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-06-26 05:12:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19761301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octobertown/pseuds/octobertown
Summary: The middle road, while oft travelled, frequently has the worst potholes: In which real life comes crashing in in the aftermath of being discovered, John Allerdyce Triumphant makes the best/worst decisions possible, and Rogue reclaims her moniker by seizing it by the throat. Part two in theAshesseries, and a direct sequel toBurnt Offerings.(Set in a retconned timeline post-DoFP and near the beginning of what-would-have-been X2, where some things look eerily similar, and other things diverge.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Bah, I dunno. Apparently there's a bit of a story to be told in here amidst the erotica? Please enjoy.

Hunched over his biology text, staring blankly at the words as they mashed together through the eye that wasn’t swollen to the size of a grapefruit, John pretended to read the same paragraph for the eighty-sixth time.

Rogue watched him askance, two desks over — a deliberate choice given their elected punishment and subsequent series of afternoons detained. Hank McCoy was a practical man, and the punishment that Dr. Grey had chosen — beyond a thorough clean of the kitchen and the biology lab — was a good sit and think, supervised in Dr. McCoy’s presence.

John, however, had had his lighter confiscated, and Rogue wasn’t certain how long it’d take before he snapped and flipped his desk. His knee was hammering out a steady jiggle that kept distracting her.

The blue and black of the shiner was fascinating, however, and studying him in these hour-long sessions, watching the damages fade, was as interesting as the planes of his face:

The way the sun lit his issues with gold if he turned his head just so, for example.

Or how his hair, lightened on impulse a handful of weeks back with Sun-In and lemon juice pilfered from the kitchen left him looking more fiery than usual.

It had already begun growing out.

That’s how many of these detentions they’d seen together.

She blew a breath out her nose, and he glanced at her sideways. Raised an eyebrow. Jutted his chin at the window. The door. Casing the place as if contemplating a quick getaway.

Rogue offered him a small, shy smile, and for a moment, John’s ticking slowed to a still as his gaze dipped to her mouth.

She tucked her hair behind her ear, and looked back to her homework, blushing.

“There is a distinct and obvious reason why you’ve been confined for the past six weeks, Mr. Allerdyce,” Dr. McCoy said over his glasses.

John raised his eyebrows. “Really? I wasn’t aware of the inconvenience.”

The doctor folded his paper down into crisp lines on the blotter, peering down at him.

“If you recall, the pair of you were discovered mid-coitus in Dr. Grey’s Biology Laboratory.”

John lifted a shoulder. “Extra credit project, like I said.”

McCoy barely blinked. “’Taking the reproductive system for a test drive’, as you put it.”

John spread his hands in deference. “Rogue was failing the class.”

She shot him a warning look.

“And the destruction of the kitchen?”

“That I will contest. It was a bit messy.” He flashed teeth. “I baked. Forgot to clean up. Not a big deal. Barely even a thing.”

Dr. McCoy’s hands, so neatly folded together, clenched and unclenched on the blotter. “I’ve received a command from on high, Mr. Allerdyce. Dr. Grey feels that your extended stay ‘doing nothing in detention’ as you so eloquently put it is having little effect on your teenage impulses. Frankly I could better use the time for my research.” He sighed.

Rogue perked up, and straightening, she shot a dagger-glare in John’s direction — a warning to delay him running his mouth and getting Dr. McCoy to divert the course of their possible freedom.

“Are you saying, sir —” she interrupted before John could open his smart mouth. “That we’re free to go?”

He appeared to grind his teeth. “Dr. Grey informs me that while she is aware of the goings on of this Institute, she’s not of a mind to spy on the overly hormonal teenagers that dwell within its walls. Frankly, my dear, I think she’s given up on the pair of you.” He pulled a face. “She mentioned something about a janitorial closet, and how, if persons were particularly inventive — they might find a little more… hem… privacy.” He cleared his throat, standing. “I encourage you to put your sharp minds to the test, and perhaps exercise somewhat more discretion, hmm?” Tucking his newspaper under his arm, Rogue thought she heard him mutter as he exited, “The rest of us would be fortunate to not have to clean up the mess.”

John stared after him, eyebrows raised. Well — one eyebrow. The other was lodged into place from the swelling.

“The psychics figured out the janitor’s closet too, huh?”

Rogue covered her mouth with her fingers, reddening.

“I think I’m actually a little insulted,” he continued. “I thought we were being pretty damned creative.”

She raised an eyebrow. “John Allerdyce, will there be a day someday in the not-so-distant future when you have a mind to actually treat me like a lady?”

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

“An actual bed,” she suggested. “Maybe some roses. Dinner?”

He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. His shirt rode up a little so that she could see the faint shadows of hair beneath his belly button.

John flashed her a wicked smile. “Candles?”

She fixed him with a look that would whither plastic greenery before pushing back from her chair.

“Okay,” he yielded. “Your room or mine? Oh, that’s right — my roommate gave me this dashing black eye, and yours is trying to pick up the rebound.”

“You can ask for a room reassignment.”

“Nope.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I was there first.”

She huffed a sigh. “I meant for being assaulted.”

He stood, collecting his book and following her. “I earned it.” He lifted his shoulder in a shrug when she glanced back at him, something wicked dancing in his eyes. “Stole his girl,” he explained.

“He’ll come around.”

He caught her up in the hall, draping an arm over her shoulder and pulling her to him. Rogue eased into his warmth, the tension she’d felt spooling between her shoulders with all this discussion about Bobby eased with his touch. “I think we’re in for a cold spell,” he said. “Better get used to it.”

John turned her into him, hands drifting to her hips and angling her so that they notched together. The sound of her protest caught in her throat when she looked up at him, and found that same old contemplative smoulder at work. It pulled the corner of his mouth up in a way that she found she liked to try and smooth out, but had only successfully managed too replace by an “o” of surprise when she did something he wasn’t expecting.

“Hey,” he said, softening a little at her expression. “I’ll keep you warm, okay?”

“Promise?”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against the shell of her ear in a drift of warm breath. Rogue’s eyes fluttered shut a moment.

“I swear.”

His hands slipped over her hair, combing through to soothe in a way that she found she liked. He brushed it offer her shoulder, fingers slipping under her collar, palm warming her.

A sigh, and she rocked with him on the spot as if he were leading her in a slow dance to music only the pair of them could hear. She imagined it carried the sound of crackling embers.

“So, about your proposition,” he murmured. “I had this idea that I thought we could try out over the weekend if you could sneak out.”

Rogue’s eyes fluttered open. “Off school grounds?”

John’s answering eyebrow raise set her heart beating a little faster.

“That whole thing about being creative,” he said. “That sounds like an appropriate challenge, doesn’t it?”

“Johnny,” she sighed, but only half in exasperation. “We _just_ regained a bit of freedom.”

He leaned into her, tucking her back against the wainscoting as a deluge of younger students sped into the hall, someone shooting sparks from their fingers. Celebrating something.

It was a moment further of John using his body like a shield against the tide of carefree children before Rogue’s tension loosened. He stroked her waist with his thumbs as if it were a ritual — her very own personal bodyguard.

“We can say we’re going to check out a couple of colleges. Take an overnight pass. I’m almost twenty. You’re AP.”

“I was a reasonably good girl before we started spending time. Now, I don’t think the senior staff trusts me as much as they can throw me.”

He leaned in to rumble against her mouth, “You’re still a good girl.”

She sucked in a breath, practically tasting his cinnamon toothpaste on his breath. She flicked a coy smile up to him, and pressed her breasts to his chest — barely. A glancing touch to catch his attention. “If you say so, sugar.”

He made a noise of interest, licking his lips. “I need you alone,” he murmured. “For several uninterrupted hours. Preferably tied up so you won’t squirm so fucking much.”

She rocked her hips a little. “Does this bother you?”

Grunting his assent, he tipped his head back as if recoiling before the strike, and then, taking a step towards her so that Rogue found herself tacked to the wall, his arms on either side of her, his thigh slipping between hers, John dipped his head to her throat and dragged a long, searing line with his tongue from her collarbone to her earlobe. Incapacitated and shivering, her hands clutching his teeshirt, she whimpered at the pressure between her legs — blooming hot and sudden as he rocked his thigh against her sensitive middle.

Pyro heaved a breath, steadying himself. Eyes slightly unfocused, he managed, “Still worth it,” and flashed her a winning smile as she did her best not to grind against his leg.

He canted his hips, and sensation flooded her from her core outwards.

Glancing over his shoulder to make sure the hall was clear, he turned back to her with a look on his face that was all too self-satisfied to say that it was over.

“How fast can you come?” he asked her.

“What?”

“Before someone comes along and sees us like this,” he clarified, peering down the hall as he ground his leg against hers, picking her up so that her toes only scraped the floor. The roll of his hips was so smooth and insistent the she could feel his length pressed into her hip. She bit her lip, stifling a moan. He leaned in, whispering, “I bet I wouldn’t even need to use my hands.”

She gripped him, warmth coiling tight between her legs where the friction awakened something new inside her: one part nerves and two parts excitement, the rest was all desire as John angled his leg to rub against her clit through her clothes.

“Someone will see us,” she hissed, only half-worried that he intended to fuck her up against the wall of a heavily trafficked corridor.

“Would you like that?” he rumbled, the motion small and subtle, but increasing in insistence. “Being put on display for everyone to see — everyone would know you’re mine.”

“Johnny --“ she gasped, her orgasm teasing as the pressure built.

The seam of her jeans might’ve been doing half the work, but John was enjoying himself at her expense: a fact that Rogue thought got him off as much as turned her on. He _liked_ watching her break apart beneath him. He liked shattering the careful boundaries of her control.

Licking his lips, he smirked down at her, their breath mingling as he ground his hard on against her. He had no intention of taking care of himself, she realized — this was one of those frequent occasions where he only wanted to watch her lose her mind.

“Okay,” she managed. “This weekend. Okay.”

“You won’t regret it,” he assured her, and of that — Rogue gave John a hundred and fifty percent confidence.

He reached down, scooping her up by her ass, hiking her thigh higher so that he could tuck closer to her sweet spot. The orgasm swooped through her faster than she could stop herself from exclaiming an expletive. The strength left her limbs, but John held her firm — easing her feet back to the floor as she folded into him, panting as the sensation doubled a moment, before ebbing away from her.

He grinned at her tired laugher, easing back only enough to adjust himself. A pointed look in either direction revealed that they hadn’t garnered any undue attention, and satisfied, John informed her, “Three minutes.”

Three minutes? She flushed scarlet. He’d timed how long it had taken her to come.

She swatted at him, covering her blush. “You’re terrible.”

“You love it,” he returned, pulling her by the pocket off the wall. He collected their books from where he’d dropped them in a pile and slipped his fingers through hers, satin making the glide of their palms so much smoother.

Someone turned the television in the lounge up, the sound drifting to them in patchy bursts.

A newscast — it sounded like.

Frowning, John turned towards the broadcaster’s voice first, his strength returning swifter the more he exposed himself to her body. It wasn’t a miracle, but Rogue couldn’t help but be impressed by his recovery time.

“Come on,” he said. “Something sounds off.”

“Wait,” she called after him, adjusting her clothes so that it wouldn’t appear obvious that he’d been dry-fucking her against a wall.

A furrow developed between his eyebrows, and as bits of the broadcast floated to her amidst the silence of the normally boisterous students in the lounge, Rogue soon understood why:

“…Worthington Labs announced Tuesday that the x-gene suppressant has passed clinical trials and will be commencing development for distribution as early as December. Spokespersons for Worthington Labs have announced that mutants seeking to have the cure administered will be able to take the suppressant prior to the new year, as well as at-risk individuals who may seek to take the vaccine in a lesser dosage as an inoculation against emerging x-gene traits. A series of specialized clinics are planned to open country-wide, beginning on the West Coast, in anticipation of high demand —”

“They’re treating us like a disease!” someone cried out.

“A mutant cure?” another echoed.

“The fuck?” John’s voice rang above the din as voices rose, students turning to each other in shock and astonishment, some in anger.

Rogue eased past him, her heart racketing into her throat — her pulse so loud it drowned out everything else, including the television announcer.

A cottony hush plugged her ears, and kneeling beside the television, she turned the volume up as loud as it would go.

“Shut up!” John shouted, and the announcer concluded his report:

“It is estimated that a one-third of the American population would benefit from these developments, and those interested need no medical approval prior to having the cure administered. Worthington Labs assures that the cure will be subsidized, and that all inoculations will be administered free of charge to patients in extreme or dire circumstances —”

She wasn’t sure who did it — the whine and crackle of electrical cables frying turned to a scream as the television rattled on its bench.

“It’s going to blow!” someone shouted. The results of teenage emotions running too-high, she thought, too late.

Rogue moved, turning to see the books slipping from John’s arms, too slowly as he lunged towards her — panic marked in his over-large eyes; the pallor to his skin — but the air sucked at her sweater as the television blasted apart at her side, plastic shrapnel and bits of electronics detonating with a force that might’ve sliced one of the younger students open.

Something pinched her ribs, the feeling delayed but turning electric and cold before she hit the lounge’s oriental rug. Screams followed, and then darkness receding to swallow John’s terrified expression as he skidded to a stop over her.

Oh, she had a moment to think to herself as thoughts slowed:

How handsome he was, even in the firelight.

And then the world dimmed to black.

—

Waking was more like floating to the surface of a large, deep pond. Hazy fluorescents gradually came into view over her hospital bed, the curtain shuffling at her side as the boy occupying the chair in front of it looked up from his book.

Bobby’s eyebrows rose, and straightening, Rogue thought she heard him call for someone — Dr. McCoy, probably.

It was a moment further before she recognized the titanium reinforcing walls of the mansion’s sub levels. She noted the IV attached to her arm, her bare limbs, and the woozy overly-stuffed feeling in her head as John’s psyche whispered to her, _Good morning, sunshine._

“Hey,” said Bobby, “you’re up.”

The strange unreality of the situation left her pinned to her pillow. Hadn’t the last words exchanged between them been the soft, disappointed resignation of him telling her that, “Nice guys finished last”? And that he “hoped they were happy together”?

Something was missing. Frowning, Rogue turned her head left to the sound of another machine beeping — not hers, however.

“You’ve been in a medically-induced coma for about a week,” Bobby was saying. “You’re going to be fine.”

 _There’s something he’s not telling you_ , John’s psyche said. _There’s something you’re missing here._

“Johnny?” she said aloud, her voice weakened by a week without use; without water.

“One of the younger kids got excited at the news announcement about a week ago. It wasn’t intentional at all, but --“

“Where’s John?” she asked, her head clearing a little more. She sat up a little, though the effort to hoist herself up left her panting hard.

“You shouldn’t move,” he warned. “You took the brunt of the explosion. Might’ve saved a few lives in the process since you took a lot of the debris, but you got pretty banged up.”

She found the bandages, stiff with blood, still wrapping her ribs.

“Ow.” She winced, falling back.

Further bandages wrapped her arms. A clear cream squelching against her skin.

Burns.

Rogue took note of the bag beside the IV drip, and though she couldn’t read the name of its contents, she recognized the opioid slowness of a strong painkiller.

“John contained most of the explosion,” Bobby explained. “It was really heroic actually.”

He searched her face, the pause he made growing pregnant the longer he didn’t finish the thought.

 _Why does he sound so surprised about that?_ John’s psyche asked.

“Where is he?” she asked again, her voice rising.

Bobby did that pinched-lip thing he did when he was reluctant to spill whatever it was that had him wound. One more second of it, and Rogue was kicking at the covers, shuttling them off her feet with a glower of warning.

“Back off, Iceman,” she bit out, her feet hitting the ground, feeling the cold tile, and her knees giving out entirely. Some lingering bit of John surfacing, ready to boil blood and bubble flesh at the slightest prompting.

Bobby’s chair hit the ground with a crash as he dove for her, stopping short only at noticing her bare arms — the only patches covered being those that had sustained injury.

Rose reached for the dividing curtain too late, the flimsy fabric not enough to hold her as she brought the whole damned thing down, her knees connecting last, the impact shuddering through her whole skeleton. The pain echoed afterwards, just as sharp.

Stupid and standing, Bobby only watched — unsure where to grab her.

 _What a fucking idiot_ , John’s psyche sneered. Rogue, who’d cultivated a fairly forgiving approach to others when it came to her powers, for once found it easy to agree.

John’s laughter echoed. _He was always a little bitch._

“Hush now,” she told him.

“What?” said the offending party.

“Just leave me alone, Bobby,” she snapped, swallowing the residual hurts her body presented to her. Her muscles shook from the effort. “You can tell me where he is, or you can get out.”

“Rogue —”

She looked up, finding the bed above her empty. Some part of her had thought that maybe he was in here with her, relegated to a hospital bed for injuries sustained while protecting her.

From across the room, hovering in the doorway, another mercifully familiar voice joined them.

“Stripes means business, kid.”

She nearly choked a sob, craning around to find her oldest friend approaching at a slow saunter. Logan nodded for Bobby to get out of the way, and frustrated and fuming, Rogue couldn’t find the strength in her legs to set herself right.

“I’ve sat with her this whole time,” Bobby protested. “Rogue, look I’m sorry, but this is a really complicated situation right now. Try to understand —”

She understood that John would have caught her, risking personal injury. Life and limb. She waved him off. “Thank you for that.” Dismissed him entirely. It didn’t help that the sinking feeling that accompanied Bobby’s little revelation revealed nothing about John’s whereabouts.

He stood, hands hanging limp at his sides. Looked down on her, crumpled on the ground and too weak to get up, and nodded to himself as if deciding he was done.

 _Good_ , John’s psyche chimed in.

It was Logan who crouched by her side, then, effectively forcing Bobby back to squash any lingering regrets. “If you were me, I wouldn’t want someone helping me up either.”

“Got answers?” she asked.

Logan scrutinized her, peered over his shoulder, and extended a hand to her. “They wouldn’t let me do this while you were out. Said it messed with your free will to not have the choice to heal up.” He huffed a breath through his nose. “Take a shot and I’ll fill you in.”

She clasped his fingers, the drain kicking in with an urgency. Logan seized up, his body going rigid as a ripple of dark veins rose to the surface of his skin.

The reciprocating wash of power sped through Rogue’s limbs, and careful to take only enough, Rogue let go with a breath — the tightness in her body unspooling into her familiar strength as the broken parts of her knit back together.

He wiped a beading of sweat from his upper lip with a shaking hand. “Better?”

In response, she got to her feet, clasping him by the elbow, and hauling him up with her.

“Clearly still not listening to your betters," he groused. "Thanks, kid.”

Bobby lingered in the door, something cold crystallizing in his gaze, like he’d been waiting for this. “He’s with the Brotherhood,” he said matter-of-factly. “Answering a call to arms.”

Logan’s answering groan suggested that he’d wanted Rogue to hear it from him, and not a bitter ex-boyfriend.

She glanced at him. “Is that true?”

Bobby made a terse noise. “Why would I lie, Rogue? I’ve got nothing to lose.” His lip curled as if wanting to say more, and thinking better of it — or perhaps it was Logan’s warning growl — Bobby left them with a shake of his head.

She let out a breath she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding.

 _Awe, shit_ , John’s psyche interjected.

Something was pulling the oxygen from the room. Suddenly suffocating, Rogue wasn’t sure whose rage belonged to who as heat flared through her, prickling her skin. Her pulse throbbed, her head too full, and she balled her fists before she thought she might hit something.

He left her behind to join the Brotherhood?

Her stomach turned, her throat closing as the weight of that possibility barrelled into her. It had all the force of a steam train set on running her over.

Knees threatening to give out, Rogue kept herself upright long enough to wrestle in the burn of tears. A whisper of Logan in her mind said that putting a fist-size dent in something might divert the pain a little, and probably, her knuckles would heal over soon enough. So why not.

“Breathe it out, Stripes. It’s okay if you need to trash something, but Hank’s been taking real good care of you the past few days. Don’t do him the disservice of wrecking his lab if you can take it outside.”

She bristled, turning to Logan with eyebrows raised. He winced, pulling himself upright as his body nullified the effects of her touch at last.

“Magneto?” she demanded.

Logan pulled out a half-bitten off cigar, clamping it into his back teeth. Looked away. “Not quite.”

She stared at him, trying to understand what would compel John to ditch her for the Brotherhood, and came up with nothing except the squeeze of old hurts, wrapping her heart in a way that made it hard to breathe.

Something was eating at her — just a nibble at first, but in rummaging through the drawers for her gloves, she realized what it was: a neurotic ticking that was beginning to make her twitch, her own skin itching her. Clothes pulled on while Logan looked on, gloves in place, the feeling didn’t abate. She only recognized it for what it was when he pulled out his lighter. Heard the hiss of butane.

The flame danced, waving lazily from across the room at her, and rapt and holding her breath, Rogue sighed to herself: “Oh.”

 _Oh yeah_ , John’s psyche echoed.

She reached out, curious if the theory was only that, and swirled the flame in midair with her finger from across the room.

 _So, maybe I should have mentioned before why my voice is so strong in your head. Lucky, I guess — sometimes it fades after a few days,_ his psyche said.

Rogue closed her eyes for a bit longer than a standard blink, a little tension leaving her shoulders as she pulled the flame to her hand. It hovered over her palm, winking cheekily: a clue hidden so close to her that she’d almost missed it.

“What’s going on?” Logan asked as she ducked her head, easing past him into the hall.

“Pyro left a message for me,” she said, a sly smile pulling at her mouth that wasn’t entirely her own. “Sneaky Pete that he is.”

Logan raised his eyebrows.

“Thanks for the top up,” she said, flashing a smile, her steps quickening.

The answering hesitation was enough to get her to turn as Logan remained rooted. “Why do I get the impression that whatever you’re about to do is going to land you in something worse than a few weeks’ detention?”

She lifted a shoulder in a shrug as she turned, still walking. “You don’t have to be an accessory.”

He looked to the ceiling. Shook his head. “Wait,” he called after her. Dug into his pockets.

Rogue’s plan cobbled into a fractured whole — a clearer picture forming in her mind, left by John without a definite message, only a suggestion and a hope: a cathedral of redwood trees.

Logan tossed her the keys to his bike, and Rogue caught them midair, flashing a smile of gratitude before she turned and ran for the elevator.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a three-day ride from coast to coast, a fact Rogue felt in her hips most of all from straddling the Harley. Her everything ached, but most of all it was the lack of concrete explanation from John’s psyche that had her feeling sore. He wouldn’t — or couldn’t — explain why John had left, but he’d offered mostly-accurate directions as to where she’d end up. Truest of all was a picture he painted with dappled impressions and mottled sunlight, leaving her to believe that he’d been there once before, and if she found the cathedral, she’d find him.

Like he knew she’d follow him. It was only a matter of time.

San Francisco’s microclimate left her damp and shivering through a persistent fog that followed her through the Bay Area, and only lifted once she’d hit the coast. The rest of the ride was smooth highway to the coastal forest, and when the trees swallowed her and the bike, it felt as if her Pyro-senses had begun tingling.

It was quiet, most of all: ancient forests had a way about them that sought to dampen the world outside with their massive shade.

The Muir National Park rose tall around her, the boundaries of the preserve lost once the path ran out at last, and when it did, she tucked Logan’s bike beneath ferns to return to later when they left. She pulled the straps of her pack a little tighter, and hid her helmet in the underbrush. In the distance, a woodpecker trilled against a tree, but everything else carried the dense silence so particular to primeval growth forest. A hush blanketed the world, and other than her footsteps and the swish of her ponytail down her leathers, she could only listen to the weakened whisper in her mind:

John’s voice in her mind was her light in the dark.

 _Due south three clicks,_ he told her. _And I’ll find you._

“How will you know I’m here?” she asked him.

His laughter was a ghost of itself, echoing hollowly until finally, there was nothing of him left in her mind at all. Being completely alone in her mind was less the reprieve than it used to be, and if she were being honest with herself, the fact of the matter was that she’d grown accustomed to sharing herself with him.

He fit better in her space than most people.

Left alone with the crunch of underbrush, her racketing footfalls, she felt the eyes on her first as she climbed up hills and through ferns, making little use of any compass other than the one that pointed her true.

The copse of trees she was meant to find belonged on no map, but she knew she’d fell upon it when the sunlight spilled through the canopy onto a hollow in the wood. The forest floor beneath her boots lent an empty quality to her steps, which made it feel like she’d risen above the earth by yards. Like she was treading on the sky itself, while the enormous trees rose straight and true, their branches arching overhead.

She’d found the cathedral.

The snap of a branch was the only warning that she wasn’t alone, and stopping, she turned towards the noise before the echoes could disorient her, she found him lingering in an alcove of redwoods, one boot raised onto a stump before him, hands folded together.

It was wrong, somehow.

“You came,” he said.

It took her a moment to place what felt off as she lingered where she was, rooted and inspecting John’s likeness. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, amusement barely contained.

Logan’s leftover impression had lost some of its strength, and thankful that she didn’t think she’d pop claws if confronted, but some aspects of his mutation were so primal that Rogue didn’t think she could shake them so easily. Grateful that she’d catalogued a bit of his abilities, she breathed deeply: tasting the air for confirmation of what she suspected at a first glance.

“I did,” she said, flashing teeth in a smile she hoped wasn’t too jagged. “Sorry I took so long.”

“I’m surprised,” he said, straightening, hands loose at his sides. “I thought the first thing you would’ve done after coming-to would have been to find the nearest clinic.”

The cure. Right. In the process of chasing John down, she hadn’t thought of her powers or what it meant to forget them for a time. Right before she’d departed the institute, even, she hadn’t hesitated: taking a wallop of Wolverine and his self-healing ability to set herself straight. That was okay. That was Logan, and Logan and her — they had an understanding of sorts.

“Must have slipped my mind,” she shrugged, folding her hands into her hoodie. Out of sight. Out of mind.

“I find that hard to believe,” he countered, sauntering to the edge of the gully, considering her with a look on his face that seemed familiar for his features, but remained one she didn’t recognize.

In her pockets, Rogue delicately tugged her fingers free from a motorcycle glove.

She tipped her head to the side. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Johnny. Why don’t you come down here and I’ll explain why there’s a perfectly reasonable reason why.” She flashed a smile, swaying her hips a little in invitation. “Or have you forgotten all about little old me so soon?”

Some understanding flit over his features, the registration that there was more to what John might’ve let on about them rising as swiftly as the surprise was staunched. A stranger was wearing his face, Rogue recognized — and it’d take her all of two-seconds to figure out why once they got into striking range.

“John” approached, a shadow of suspicion marking him — it was a look she recognized, but not one he’d ever aimed at her. That look was reserved for teachers. For Bobby, occasionally, when John was especially pissed off.

It appeared that the mutant wearing his skin hadn’t taken the breath of the real John’s facial expressions — but there was one critical thing missing that might’ve fooled her.

Three yards apart, and “John” still hadn’t pulled out his lighter.

Rogue smiled. “C’mere sugar,” she welcomed him, extending a bare hand in invitation. “I missed you.”

Laugher from the trees. “She’ll drop you sooner than she can crack you in the face,” the real John said, his voice echoing.

Rogue didn’t turn, her smile falling as she lunged for the imposter, pulling out the last residual echoes of his power as she felt, finally, like a sigh —

 _Fire_.

The clack of his lighter was subtle, but the flame too real as she reached for it, drawing it to her like a whip.

John’s leg came up, catching her in the ribs as Rogue snapped a hand towards his face, clawing cheek and grazing skin. The mirage dissolved before her, and John’s clothing folded into blue skin.

The strike was quick and debilitating, but too late — Rogue didn’t need to parry, she only needed to clasp the ankle that hit her in the shoulder. She turned with it, surprise registering in yellow eyes.

“Awe, shit,” the real John laughed, and Rogue and the blue-skinned woman dropped, panting.

She sucked a breath, wincing at the abbreviated onslaught of information.

She groaned. Yellow eyes slanted up at her.

“Magneto’s flunky, Johnny — really?” Rogue scoffed.

Breathing hard, Mystique wrenched her leg from Rogue’s reach. “I’m not Magneto’s anything,” she seethed. “You can come out now, Pyro. I think this demonstration’s been sufficient. God —” She sucked a breath through her teeth. “I think you’ve triggered a migraine.”

“After effects,” she spat, grimacing at the new information she’d pulled from the woman. “You were testing me. Why.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as Mystique recovered. “We’re of a certain influence here. No one that presents a liability enters camp.”

“You’re building an army,” she shot back. “Or a cult.”

“Neither. We’re building a sanctuary for those who wouldn’t subject themselves willfully to sterilization. A haven,” she said. “Sanctuary.”

Rogue winced, trying to parse what she’d taken from her. She hadn’t held on long enough, that much was evident.

“Clearly you haven’t come to join the cause,” she said, rising. Mystique brushed dirt from her backside, somehow managing to make it look dignified. She glanced at John, who’d arrived to the clearing looking no worse for wear, but remained reserved. He kept his hood up, a bandana wrapping the lower half of his face.

“No.”

She felt his frown. Rogue noted his distance.

“Then why are you here, if not to stand beside your brethren?”

John held her stare.

“The people here — many of them aren’t as strong as you are. They’ve sought solace. They need protection,” said Mystique. “I will defend them from anyone who tries to do them harm; even if they’re gifted. Especially if they are.”

“Rogue’s no traitor,” John said. There was something definitive to it: the statement lacked all doubt.

Having never stopped to think about what she was walking into, Rogue hesitated.

“I followed a friend,” she said, because it was true. She didn’t say she’d come to bring him home — rather, she thought, he’d taken home with him when he left; like it was a trailer and she’d been forgotten at a truck stop someplace and was just trying to catch him up.

With the bandana over his mouth, Rogue couldn’t see his expression.

Mystique glanced between them, then down to his hand.

“You realized the ruse earlier than most,” she said, a sly smile quirking. “You two must have something special.”

Rogue shoved herself to standing, bare-handed and newly itching for a fight. Some latent part of Logan ready to rend and tear at no prompting at all.

“We’re not done,” Rogue called after her, but Mystique only called back, “We’ll never be done, Rogue,” but the niggling bit of confusion that her words encouraged only created more of a jumble in her mind.

She flinched, the sunlight between trees becoming blinding the harder she searched for what Mystique meant, but only came up with fractured impressions.

To John, Mystique called through the trees as she left them, “She’s your charge, Pyro.”

Rogue supposed that meant she was on a probationary welcome of some sort.

“Hey,” said John from her left, and Rogue glanced at him — wincing at the whirring pain in her head as Mystique’s impressions and memories took up occupancy in her mind.

He kept his distance, hovering a few yards away in case he too needed to defend himself.

Rogue sniffed. This John, at least, was the real variety: Wolverine’s psyche confirmed it with a whiff of his scent.

“Hey yourself.”

He didn’t reach for her, and somehow, the ripple of pain she felt at those few feet of distance between them was worse than the initial understanding that he’d left her alone at all.

She straightened. Stared him down. Waiting.

He at least had the gall not to flinch.

“You could’ve waited,” she managed at last.

He searched her face, some new emotion setting root there. It occurred to her belatedly that he’d believed that she wasn’t coming to find him at all. He swooped all at once -- wrapping himself around her waist with collision force as her feet left the ground, face in her stomach as he lifted her, hands gripping her to him. A muffled expletive into her stomach as he set her down and sank to his knees before her, pressing kisses into all the covered parts of her that he could reach.

“Sorry,” he managed, breathless and smothered. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, you’d better be — the third degree I got from Bobby was meant for two.”

He said, “I didn’t think — I thought you would’ve chosen the cure.”

She pulled back from him, glanced at her bare fingers, frowning. “Yeah, I suppose that would’ve been a reasonable assumption, but Johnny —” she shook her head. “I chose you first.”

His breath heated her stomach through her sweatshirt, and he looked up at her from the ground, hands on her thighs in a gesture that was too intimate even for the middle of nowhere.

The bandana moved when he spoke, but there was a softness about his eyes that looked like nothing she’d ever seen before. Something softer. Something absolutely gobsmacked.

It was followed quickly by a flash of shrewd calculation.

“So,” he said. “I’m a ‘friend’ now?”

“Idiot,” she laughed, fingers finding his hoodie and pulling it back. “What’s with the disguise --“

“Wait —”

He caught her wrist, and a brush of skin across her pulse point offered a flash.

“Shit,” he said, sinking back on his heels.

Frozen, Rogue’s hand hovered.

She worked down the lump in her throat. “Bobby said you contained the blaze when the television exploded.”

He rolled back onto his feet, rising and taking a further step back. Before she could escape him entirely, Rogue moved too quick; catching John by the sleeve and pulling him to her before he could drift too far from her orbit. Placing a palm to his face, the barrier of the bandana protecting his skin, he moved to flinch away.

Rogue forced down a frown, but held on.

John’s gaze flew anywhere but on her. He was holding his breath too boot, as if she’d suddenly strip him of whatever protection he thought a scrap of fabric might offer.

“Hey,” she said with a frown. A step closer and their legs brushed.

“It’s not good,” he managed, the sound strangled. “I don’t want you to see.”

She held him there with a gentleness — one hand trailing down his sleeve and the other gently cradling his face. She brushed a thumb along his cheekbone, his warmth through the cotton unrivalled.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

He searched her face. Managed a choked, “No. It’s just not — I don’t look --“

She stopped him by rising onto her toes, tipping into him and guiding his mouth to hers. She pressed her lips to cotton, finding the shape of his mouth. John stiffened at first, but sank into it after a moment with a small noise of appreciation.

Tenderly, Rogue traced the contour of his upper lip. Kissed the corner of his mouth. His cheek.

His hands stole around her waist, sliding up her ribcage and drawing her against his chest. He slipped into her jacket, pulling her closer.

When he made a guttural sound of appreciation, she pulled back, her face tingling with the heat of a blush.

He watched her, the wonder stark in his eyes. Blew out a breath. And shook his head.

“If that was the last time you ever wanted to kiss me, I’m glad it was that good,” he said.

She tipped her head, and he snagged her ponytail, giving it a gentle tug. He sighed, fingers finding their way into her hair. “You look perfect. Like you didn’t throw yourself in front of an exploding television set by a bunch of triggered thirteen year olds.”

“Logan,” she said. “I was laid up for a whole week before I opened my eyes. Dr. McCoy was keeping me sedated while I healed.”

“But Wolverine was the one who gave you the power up.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I needed to expedite the healing process. Someone left me a psyche voicemail instead of texting like a normal person.”

He hesitated a moment further. Then with a sigh, John tugged down the bandana.

He seemed to be holding his breath, and with a frown, Rogue placed a hand on his chest as she pushed back his hoodie.

A fresh pink welt marred the side of his face and neck — the skin still pink and puffy from the burn.

“Backlash,” he muttered.

“You were trying to get me out of the way.”

Part of his hair had burnt away as well, but the skin was only a little touched by it.

“I didn’t move fast enough.”

It would scar. Already, the skin was rippling with healing, crinkling together and shinier then the rest.

John eyed her askance. His hands now slack at his sides.

Rogue looked at him. Truly, looked at him.

“You’re not my friend John Allerdyce,” she said. “You’re my goddamned hero.”

He wet his lip, huffing a breath that might’ve been a laugh. He still hadn’t relaxed.

“You’re sure it doesn’t hurt?”

“No, but I look like fucking Quasimodo,” he shot back, bearing his neck. “It runs down to my chest.”

Far be it from telling him Dr. McCoy likely had better facilities than whatever Mystique had on offer, she shot back, “Show me.” He had, after all, fucked right off to the middle of California without missing a beat, and he hadn’t yet explained why it had mattered so much to leave her behind.

Giving her one of his trademarked, pissy looks that screamed impatience and disbelief, he raised his eyebrows, and puffed out a breath. Shook his jacket off his shoulders, and then his hoodie. When his teeshirt was halfway over his head, Rogue let out a breath she hadn’t been aware that she’d been holding, and finding what little sense she had on hand, extracted her leather gloves again, yanking them on without ceremony.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

In response, she put her fingers to his side, trailing a line to the bandages she found wrapping him.

“Making sure you’re not worse off than you’re letting on,” she muttered.

“I’m fine, Rogue. It’s fine.”

“If you’re so fine you can explain why exactly you dragged me all the hell out here to California instead of just waiting until I woke up.”

His lips pinched into a thin line, his teeshirt bunched into his fists, muscles flexing with the chill. She wanted to pinch one of his nipples like he’d been a misbehaving little brat, pulling her ponytail and calling her names in the playground.

“You looked —” He shut his mouth, stopping himself. Chewing over his words, he tried again, “You looked like you had your answer when that news report came on,” he said. “You looked like they’d solved all the problems in the fucking universe with the cure. You looked like you had an out.”

“I wasn’t looking for one,” she shot back.

He began pulling his shirt back over his head.

“I didn’t say you could put that back on,” she said.

He stopped mid-motion, glaring.

Rogue gave the teeshirt a pointed look.

Something shifted in him then, turning curious, and then predatory. He dropped the teeshirt on top of the small pile of his clothes.

Rogue left her hands on her hips, fixing him with her best thousand yard stare. “Yes, in some world — some universe — that might be a no-brainer. I considered it. I will likely continue considering it, because — and I don’t know if you know this, but I would like to maybe someday sleep next to my boyfriend without worrying about throwing an arm over his back and knockin’ him dead. I would like to someday maybe marry a man and raise a family. I would like to have an existence that might otherwise pass as normal and boring and commonplace to anyone who doesn’t take it for granted, but if I did that now? Johnny, I wouldn’t have the wherewithal to kick your ass into next Sunday like you deserve. So I’m puttin’ it off.”

“You get more Southern the more pissed off you get,” he said, appreciative.

“I didn’t wake up and go out and take the damned cure. It didn’t even cross my mind.”

“Why’s that?”

She bristled, sidling up to him. Rogue got right up into his face, tracing his scars with her eyes, trying hard not to soften to him when he looked at her like _that_.

“Because maybe you’ve done a fine job of making me feel like I’m normal just the way I am.”

He was breathing harder now, his tongue darting out to lick his lip as he exaggerated a groan. “Oh, okay then.” John shrugged, his breath leaving a hot trail down her neck as he traced a line down her throat with his gaze. “So I’m the special ‘friend’ who was crazy enough to get you off the way you needed, and that was solution.”

“No,” she countered. She swallowed her nerves. “You’re more than that to me.”

The heat of his hand trailing around her hip to her ass warmed her to her core, making her catch her breath as he pulled her against him so that she could feel the heat off his body for herself. She sank into it, her fingers finding his belt loops as his length pressed against her belly. He rocked with her against him, and she sighed, “And you get me off the way I need it.”

He chuckled, low and dark.

John’s breath against the shell of her ear brought out a shiver. “Am I your fuck buddy?” he asked.

His hand moved lower, cupping her cheek through her jeans and scooping his fingers into the juncture of her thighs from behind. He gave her ass a little squeeze, and Rogue arched into his chest with a small sigh, presenting her bottom to his eager hands.

“No,” she said, and his fingers sound the seam over her crotch, scraping along the edge and pressing into her warmth.

“That’s nice,” she said into his chest, careful not to graze his skin with her lips.

He kneaded her ass, pulling her against his thigh so the added friction might wind her tighter.

“What am I to you, then, Rogue?”

His breath against the shell of her ear raised the downy hair on the back of her neck; her arms.

“Mm,” she said, her own fingers scraping down his abs, finding his belt and tugging at it. “My lover. My confidant. My partner in crime,” she offered with a sigh. “My man.”

“Your man,” he echoed.

“That okay, sugar?”

He let go suddenly, releasing her at the waist and leaving Rogue surprised only long enough to find that he’d lifted her up. She gave a shout of surprise as he hooked her legs around his waist, and with a grunt of effort, he said into her chest with a kiss to her left breast, “Yeah, it’s fine. I was hoping you’d call me ‘daddy’ though.”

Rogue squirmed, “You’re so — filthy!” And laughing, he carried her to the nearest redwood, setting her against its trunk with his hips offering the support he needed to unzip her sweatshirt.

“Master, then?” he tried again, pulling at her scarf.

“Johnny!”

“Yeah, I like that one too. Let’s go with that.”

“Johnny —”

He ground against her, loosening the fabric of his bandana and draping it from her shoulder to her throat.

“I’m glad you showed up,” he said, his mouth finding her pulse point and placing a kiss into the soft juncture of her throat through the cotton. “Been thinking about you constantly.”

She sighed, her hands trailing up his shoulders and into his hair, gripping him as he hitched her up and she could feel for herself just how much he’d been thinking about her; pressed against her softest parts and heating her through her jeans.

A hand slid from her hip and up her stomach to cup a breast. He squeezed gently, and she arched into his touch.

“I don’t have gloves with me,” he admitted, pulling the bandana to the other side, moistening it with his tongue as he sank teeth into her neck. Marking her. Claiming her. Rogue shivered, her nipples pebbling. He found one through her shirt, the tips of his fingers appreciating the firm pebble of flesh.

The next sound he made was a grumble of pleasure.

“That’s a shame,” she said. “I’ve always wondered what it’d be like outdoors.”

He drew back an inch, staring.

Through half-lidded eyes, she appraised him, canting her hips with the barest suggestion.

“Thought I might show my appreciation for everything I’ve learned from you, helping me work through some of my issues,” she said. Rogue bit her lip, confessing in a rush, “I’m so _wet_ , Johnny.”

John all but tore the bandana from her neck, his hands finding her fly as he all but ripped down the zipper. Her feet touched the ground, but only long enough for John to slip his hand over the front of her panties, fingers tucking into her folds, and groaning loudly at truth he found there.

“Not fair,” he said.

In response, she pulled him closer, leather-clad fingers trailing the muscles of his arms. She lifted her leg, adjusting to take him deeper, and she could see him debating the worst thing possible: pushing her panties to the side and sliding his fingers into her.

She stopped him by cupping the front of his pants. Rubbing the heel of her hand down his shaft, she marvelled at the length and heat of him, even through his jeans.

Dry-mouthed, he said against her lips, “I need to take you back to camp. I have a tent.”

“Do you have a condom?”

He swallowed. Licked his lips. Nodded.

Rogue leaned in, whispering into his ear. “Good, because I think there’s something I’d like to try.”

He glanced at her. She held out her hand.

“Not here,” he managed, strangled.

Frowning, she dragged a finger down the length of his cock, then back up to the fly. Popping the button, she drew the zipper open, watching him watching her as she did.

“That’s a shame.”

She folded her hand around his length, enjoying the look on his face as his eyes fluttered shut, and she gave his cock a squeeze.

“Leather gloves?” he asked, the sound strangled.

She answered by stroking down, and then back up; running her thumb around the head of his penis and smearing off some of the pre-cum.

Releasing him got his attention. Licking the droplet off her thumb — that got him moving:

John pulled her from the tree, stuffing himself back into his jeans and ripping his shirt over his head. He snatched up his hoodie and jacket, and with a shake of his head, reached for her once she’d made herself presentable.

Rogue slowed him by pulling him back to her, and breathless with haste, John asked, “What?”

She took a breath, finding the blush came naturally as she ducked her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Would you -- if it’s not too much trouble — and I understand if you don’t want to, but —“

He stalked two steps forward, ducking down to drag her gaze back up to his.

Raised his eyebrows.

“Would it be okay if I kissed you?” she asked. Swallowing her nerves, she added as if it were a dollop of sugar, “On the lips?”

A small smirk threatened, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re telling me you want to do things with my dick — experimental things — and then you blush when you ask me if I’ll kiss you?”

Rogue tipped her head, pursing her lips. “You know why I need to ask.”

He huffed a breath, taking her hands in his. “It’s no more dangerous than fondling my nuts.”

She smacked him in the arm. Slugged him once more in the same spot for emphasis.

He grinned, pulling her to him.

“You’re a pig,” she informed him.

“You fucking love it when I dirty talk to you,” he said into her mouth, his breath mingling with hers as he descended.

A small tug of concern tugged at her, but she smoothed her lips against his in a chaste kiss. Brief and all too fleeting, barely tasting him.

“Okay?” she whispered into his mouth.

He hummed his agreement. There was no drain. “One more?”

Her breathing hitched. It had been what she hoped for: John’s willingness to push every boundary.

Silently, to herself, she thought: I’m sorry.

And this time, her hands found the back of his head as she slanted their mouths together, holding on when he realized that her delicate little butterfly of a kiss had been an invitation to something far more calculated.

When Rogue’s powers kicked in, she took the flood as his memories and thoughts rushed at her, but held on precisely three seconds longer than necessary — gauging the cutoff point with an exacting sort of precision that scared her just a little as she released him, catching him around the waist as he sagged, going boneless in her arms.

Rogue shifted him, unconscious but breathing, glaring around them at the cathedral of trees to make sure they were still alone.

“You’re my man, alright, Johnny,” she said, pulling him arm over her shoulders to better lift him as she dragged him back to her bike. “And there’s no way I’m leaving my man out in the damned wilderness on some mutant retreat with a terrorist group.”


End file.
